


This is not Hell

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Saras is a vampire and Pau gets jealous at some point. That's it, that's the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is not Hell

  
_May 9th, 2012 — Turkey, Istanbul, Polat Renaissance Hotel_  
Saras dumps his bag on the floor with a sigh and then throws himself on the bed, which is thick and soft enough that he bounces on it a little.

“You okay?” Dimitris asks from the door. When he turns on the lights, Saras grunts in discomfort and Dimitris giggles. “Don’t be like that, you know I can’t see in the dark like you do.”

“I can’t see in the dark either,” Saras mumbles, crawling on the covers until he can bury his face into a pillow. Dimitris shuffles around the room for a moment, then he starts digging around in his bag, muttering something about his phone; the soft, rustling sounds he makes going through clothes and training gear would easily lull Saras into a lazy slumber, if his exhaustion had anything to do with tiredness.

Saras is restless because he hasn’t fed in three days.

He usually stuffs himself nearly to the point of sickness before away games, so to avoid any kind of unfortunate incidents while he’s on the road and constantly surrounded by his trusting, beloved teammates. This time, however, he’s been so busy busting his ass during training and trying to keep the boys’ mood up while the coach gnawed at their very will to live, that he didn’t really feel like adding a dizzy stomach on top of that. He sticked to the strictly necessary and now he wishes he hadn’t, because he feels like shit and usually, when he feels like shit people tend to start losing limbs.

“You up for a round of poker?” Dimitris asks, suddenly.

Saras has been counting his heartbeats without even realizing it, so he says, “Two-hundred and fifty-five.”

“What?”

“Uh. No, no poker for me today, sorry, I’m just gonna sleep for a while.”

Dimitris pats his ankle and he says, fondly, “I’ll come back and wake you up before dinner, or training. Whichever comes first.”

“Yeah, probably training,” Saras mumbles into the pillow. “Thanks.”

The moment the door shuts closed behind Dimitris’s back, Saras is on his feet, picking his bag up from the floor and then, in a flash, he’s locked himself in the bathroom; before he knows it, he’s drained two bloodbags already, and he’s licking the warm, sticky red drops staining his fingers.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” he sighs, leaning back into the wall and smacking his lips. “Thank you for this food.”

He has another untouched bloodbag, so he figures he can drink some more from his thermos. Blood is blood and it all tastes pretty much the same; tepid blood is good and cold blood is great in the summer, but to Saras, nothing beats the hot stuff, even hotter than what it’d be like coming straight out of a vein. He likes it so much he used to go around with a tiny thermos flask of scalding-hot blood in his pocket all the time, until one very thirsty teammate asked him for a sip, and cue the awkward attempts at coming up with an explanation that didn’t involve the words ‘vampire’ and ‘blood’ and ‘please don’t call the cops’.

Saras smirks at the memory and gulps down another mouthful like he would with a cup of coffee. He feels good again, warm and nearly alive, heavier and not at all inclined to move, at least for a while, from where he’s sitting on the shut toilet.

He puts down the thermos and scans the bathroom for stains or sprays, but his nose is telling him he didn’t miss a drop. He sighs, takes out his phone to distract himself playing Bejeweled or maybe checking his e-mails, but he ends up scrolling through his contacts list until he hits the J.

Juan Carlos answers after the second ring and he doesn’t even sound surprised when he says, “Hello, Saras.”

“Aw, Caller IDs took all the fun away from everything,” Saras says, grinning broadly and leaning back into the wall. Juan Carlos stifles a laugh.

“You could always change your number,” he points out, his voice cheerful in that very subtle way he has. Saras licks a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Are you at the hotel already? I can’t hear airport noises.”

“Nope, actually I’m still at home. Packing as we speak, as a matter of fact.”

“God, seriously? When’s your flight?”

He hears faint rustling through the phone, and he can picture Juan Carlos stuffing a bunch of visually offensive socks into his backpack.

“Uhm. I’m not sure, but we’ll be there tonight.” After a moment he adds, “Like, _late_.”

“Barcelona-late?”

Juan Carlos laughs. “No, not _that_ late. I think maybe around ten, Istanbul time.”

Saras checks the time on his phone — it’s half past four in the afternoon, — and groans loudly. “You’re shitting me.”

“Sorry.”

“Ditch the team and get here sooner?”

Juan Carlos laughs. “Sorry,” he says again, only this time it sounds more like, _you’re being insane, and I think it’s adorable_. Saras is not sure how to feel about that. “C’mon, what is it, six hours? Be brave.”

“I haven’t seen you in _forever_ ,” Saras whines, and while that may not be literally accurate, it certainly matches his feelings. Juan Carlos makes a small, sweet noise.

“I miss you too,” he mumbles, with a great deal of effort, and he’s probably both blushing and grinning. Saras sighs and lazily strokes himself through his jeans, just to ease things for the slightly painful, definitely pleasant stiffening of his cock.

“Alright,” he says, under his breath. “Hurry up, or don’t. I’ll be waiting.”

 

_July 23rd, 2012 — Spain, Barcelona, Bar – Cerveseria – Restaurante Els 4Gats_  
“Is it true, then?” Pau asks, picking nervously at a slice of bread. Juan Carlos eats a spoonful of heavily spiced tomato soup and shrugs.

“Mostly, yeah,” he says. “But there won’t be anything official for another couple of days, I think, so it’s not exactly bulletproof.”

Pau snorts, unimpressed. “He’ll sign whatever they offer him.”

“I don’t think so,” Juan Carlos says, with a pointed look. “He’ll sign whatever they offer, if it’s reasonable.”

“He doesn’t exactly have that many choices.”

“He does.”

Pau rolls his eyes. “Not at his age, not really.”

“Kobe’s not much younger,” Juan Carlos points out, his voice even.

Marc is sitting on the third side of the table and it feels like he’s a billion miles away, lost at sea. He swallows a bite of pork chops and then clears his throat.

“Okay, guys, stop with the creepy mind-reading thing and please tell me what I’m missing out on in this conversation?” he says, fiddling with the meat in his plate. “And are you arguing? You know I can never tell when you’re arguing, unless it’s about tennis.”

“We’re not arguing,” Pau says, a little too sharply, which means that, yeah, they’re definitely arguing.

“Don’t play with your food,” Juan Carlos says, smiling like the smug bastard they all know he hides under the pretty baby fawn appearance. “We’re talking about Saras.”

“Oh,” Marc says, and then, “ _Oh_ ,” much more firm, as it all kinda starts to make sense. “Wait, he’s coming back?”

“From what I’ve heard, they’re still trying to find an agreement,” Juan Carlos says, shrugging again, always shrugging. Marc rolls his eyes.

“Please, like you don’t know exactly what’s going on and how many commas there’s gonna be in his contract,” he says; Juan Carlos ducks his head and tries to hide a smile behind his spoon, but it doesn’t really work. Marc pokes at his ankle under the table. “C’mon, you can tell me. Should I get excited about the prodigal son coming back home?”

Juan Carlos looks up at him from under his lashes, makes a show to check that none of the other customers of the restaurant are paying attention to the three of them, and finally, he lets his default frowny face melt into a grin.

“Yeah,” he says. “You should.”

Marc throws his arms up in the air and whoops, happy as a child, which does earn him a couple of glares, but he can live with that.

“I’ll never stop smiling ever again,” he says. Pau snorts, unconvinced, and Marc really has to slap his elbow. “C’mon, bro, this is good news. We need a badass point-guard and you know that.”

“No, not really, I don’t,” Pau says. “It worked fine last year with Marce and Victor.”

Marc hesitates, because criticising a team before its captain doesn’t sound very smart to him, but Juan Carlos gets there first anyway.

“It worked _out_ fine, yes, in the end, but it could’ve worked so much better throughout the year,” he says, quietly. “I’m not getting any younger either, you know.”

“Neither is Saras.”

“Aw, c’mon, bro, respect,” Marc says, laughing and pouring himself another glass of water. “He scored a call-up with the National Team and actually showed up this year too, didn’t he? That tells you a lot.”

“It tells me he’s in shape, yes, and also that he’ll get to September with thirty-something years, a full season and an Olympic tournament on his back.”

“Fuck, Pau, now you’re just being mean,” Marc says.

“No,” Juan Carlos says. “He’s just being jealous.”

Pau snorts, but he doesn’t deny it. Marc blinks a couple of times.

“Do you two need a moment?” he asks, waving a hand around.

Juan Carlos actually nods. “Yes, thanks.”

“Uh, okay. I’ll just, I’ll go walk the dog,” Marc says, randomly, and he gets up and he doesn’t really have a dog to take out for a walk, of course.

Pau sighs and runs his hands through his hair; Juan Carlos cups the side of his face and makes a tiny smile.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Pau turns his head into his touch and kisses the palm of his hand.

“I don’t know. He got back before me,” he says. “I guess I’m really jealous.”

“You don’t have to. Don’t get me wrong, I like it,” Juan Carlos grins. “But, honestly, he’s Saras. He doesn’t think about that.”

Pau arches his eyebrows so much he probably strained a muscle there. “Juanqui, I honestly don’t know how many times you’ve slept with him. I don’t wanna know. How can you possibly tell me he doesn’t think about _that_?”

Juan Carlos rolls his eyes and rubs a thumb into the spot between his eyebrows, where his foreheard is always crinkling.

“I didn’t mean sex,” he mumbles, blushing. “I meant, you know, long term, exclusive, committed relationships. He doesn’t do that — he doesn’t want that with me, at least. And I definitely don’t want that with him.”

“’Cause you got me,” Pau says, looking up at him, and Juan Carlos has the nerve to grin.

“I was gonna say because I have a wife,” he says. “But, yeah, I have you, too.”

Pau leans in to kiss him then, but he pulls back the moment he remembers they’re in a public place full of people who have eyes and, worse than that, mobile phones with cameras. Juan Carlos makes a tiny, unhappy noise, and Pau strokes the tip of his nose.

When Marc comes back he says, “Well, thanks for not spilling any blood on my plate.”

 

_March 18th, 2001 — Spain, Málaga, Palacio Martín Carpena_  
He’s been looking for Saras everywhere, but nobody has seen him ever since they pulled out the fifth champagne bottle in the locker room. Juan Carlos is not exactly worried, because this is still a basketball arena and it’s not like Saras could’ve wandered off and get hit by, say, _a train_ or anything; but then again, it’s Saras, and he’s insane and he could find trouble in an empty room, so maybe Juan Carlos is worried, after all.

He slips past the security guards posted on the two sides of the tunnel that ends up on the court, and he turns in the opposite direction, diving into the inner maze of hallways of the arena.

He pokes his head inside every door he finds, he asks the few stewards he meets if maybe they’ve seen Saras, number thirteen, a smile that could lit up a stadium, crazy eyes, probably a basketball under his shirt to fake a pregnancy, but all he gets is adoring smiles and shaking heads.

He finds a thousand storage rooms, and what the hell was the dude who designed this place thinking, nobody needs this many storage rooms in an arena; he’s this close to give up his quest and run back to the locker room, — he knows they’re eating cake, he can feel it in his bones, those bastards, — when he hears, or rather, he thinks he hears something from the room at the end of the hallway.

“I saw this in a movie, once,” he mutters to himself, walking towards that last door. “And it didn’t end well.”

Nevertheless, he pushes the door open and squints at the darkness, trying to figure out if there’s someone in there; he hears that noise again, a soft, whiny whisper, and he opens the door a bit wider.

“Saras?” he calls, and he thinks he’s seen something move on the far side of the room, but it’s so dark he can’t really be sure. “Saras, is that you?”

When he doesn’t get an answer, he breathes in and walks into the room, groping at the wall and looking for a switch; when he finds it, he flips it on and in the sudden whiteness that explodes from the ceiling he is blind for a moment.

“Shit,” he says, when his eyes have adjusted to the light and he sees the shadow curled up behind a ceiling-high metal rack. “Saras, are you alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Saras says, but he sounds everything except fine; Juan Carlos rushes to his side, crouching right next to him, and when he puts a hand on his naked shoulder, Saras is freezing cold.

“Oh crap. Hang on, I’m calling a medic.”

“No, _don’t_ ,” Saras hisses, grabbing him by the arm so quickly Juan Carlos never saw him moving; his grip is hard enough to bruise, probably even hard enough to bend and break the bone, and as soon as he realizes it — as soon as Juan Carlos’ pink lips part in half a pained moan, — he lets go of him as if he got burnt. “Sorry. Just — go, Juanqui, get out, I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Juan Carlos says, trying to rub some feeling back into his arm.

Saras glances guiltily up at him, and that’s when Juan Carlos notices his eyes; Saras’ eyes were always unusual, a weird clear colour that could turn to green and light blue and even gray under the right light. Right now, they’re completely black, as if his pupils exploded, and Juan Carlos draws a sharp breath.

“Okay,” he says. “Now I’m officially worried sick, Saras, what’s wrong?”

Saras growls and shakes his head, trying to curl into himself even more. Juan Carlos touches him again, this time cupping the side of his neck, trying to get him to turn around and look at him and maybe _explain_ himself; Saras goes very still for a second, and then he leans into Juan Carlos’ hand, and he does start to turn around — only his eyes are trained on Juan Carlos’ palm, his wrist, and before he knows it, Saras has grabbed his arm and there’s sharp fangs breaking his skin, an insanely hot tongue lapping at the blood pouring out of the wound.

The pain gets him, then, and Juan Carlos collapses to his knees, too scared to even scream.

“Saras,” he says, because his fucking teammate — Saras, the best point-guard he’s ever played with, the man he’s been looking up to for the past ten months and who’s taught him so much just by being there and doing his thing, smiling and laughing a lot and shoving into everyone’s personal space and acting like a total twelve-year-old who’s also very, disturbingly good at basketball, — _Saras_ is biting his wrist and drinking his blood and fuck, it doesn’t make any sense. “Saras, please—”

As suddenly as it took him over, the haze wears off and Saras slowly blinks back to full conciousness; the moment he realizes he’s sucking Juan Carlos’ blood he violently jerks back, which hurts the boy even more.

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry,” Saras says, not entirely coherent yet, but he bites his own wrist and then offers it to Juan Carlos. “It’ll fix you, please, Juanqui, you have to — you have to drink it.”

Juan Carlos is pale and fading, blood flowing out of his wrist in thick streaks, the scent alone intoxicating; Saras pushes his own bleeding wound to his lips, and Juan Carlos doesn’t have much choice but to gulp and try to keep it down.

Saras holds him close as he heals, not as fast as Saras would like, but still, faster than humanly possibl.

“I’m sorry,” he tells him, over and over and over again, until Juan Carlos has regained enough strength to bump his forehead against his shoulder and tell him to shut the fuck up.

He sits up, when he’s okay again, and stares at the flawless skin on his wrist for a moment; the only proof that he ever was this close to bleeding to death are the stains on his fingers and the floor.

“Okay,” he whispers. “What the fuck was that?”

Saras grits his teeth and when he looks up, there’s a trace of blood at the corner of Juan Carlos’ mouth. He doesn’t think about it, he just leans in and licks him clean. Juan Carlos blushes so hard you’d never guess he just lost a good pint of blood.

 

_September 18th, 2011 — Lithuania, Kaunas, Žalgirio Arena_  
“That was one hell of a game.”

Juan Carlos’ grin grows broad and happy, and when he turns around, Saras is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and that two billions watt smile locked on, like the poster boy for all that’s gorgeous and wide-shouldered and incredibly dangerous in the world. Juan Carlos feels suddenly a lot warmer, and drawn to him like a very tall, very best-basketball-player-in-Europe-and-if-he’s-not-being-modest-then-probably-also-in-the-world moth to a flame that burns cold like a winter.

“I was better the other day,” he says, and Saras doesn’t even bother scolding him for being a pain in the ass, he just hugs him tight and buries his face into Juan Carlos’ neck.

“I bet you taste even better than you did in Paris,” he says, squeezing him a bit harder; Juan Carlos groans into his shoulder.

“We should find out if I really do.”

He does.  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the 2012 Euroleague Final Four was held in Istanbul and all the players stayed at the Polat Reinassance Hotel and Panathinaikos really got there early in the afternoon, whereas Barcelona only landed around 9pm and Juanqui and Saras met in the lobby just as Juan Carlos arrived and Saras was getting back from training. Cue the reunions! And embraces! Between the scoring king and the four-times champion! Legends! That’s not me, it’s actually what the Euroleague website says.
> 
> The Spanish NT spent all of July 2012 locked away on training camps working for the upcoming Olympics, and traveling around the country playing friendlies; they arrived in Barcelona on July 22nd ([have some pictures](http://www.feb.es/galeria.aspx?idg=25276)!) and stayed there until the 26th, when they eventually left for London. I have no idea where they stayed, the FEB website is not as stalker-friendly as the Euroleague’s, but the 4gats is a real restaurant that looks pretty awesome from the Internet (I’ve only ever been outside it and the food smelled good, too).
> 
> Saras signed his second contract with Barça on July 26th, 2012, which also happened to be the day after the greatly advertised Spain-US game that they played, guess where? Yeah, in Barcelona. He was presumably in town for the signing (duh), but the actual press conference and official presentation was held after the Olympics, on August 27th ([as you can see from this long-ass, awesome video](http://youtu.be/ibq_7MNbxVQ?t=1m20s)) at the Camp Nou, followed by the first training that very same day.
> 
> The 2011 snippet is obviously set right after the Eurobasket, when Juanqui won the MVP award for scoring 25 points, with 5 assists to the side, in the final against France, right after he’d led Spain through the semifinals against Macedonia with a 35p-and-4r-in-36-minutes game.


End file.
